Superman
by VivaLaVida1704
Summary: There are seven Benedict brothers. One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told. That makes seven lives, seven heroes, seven stories. Or maybe just one story. One story about one war that would tear their family to shreds.
1. Prologue

**A/N. Well hello there fanfiction. For those of you who've never come across me and my insane brand of story-telling before…welcome to the madness, beware you were warned. If there's anybody out there who read or reviewed my last story (goes by the name of Lucky Thirteen, maybe check it out if you're bored?) welcome back. This is just a wee prologue thing but basically…this story will be about all seven Benedict boys and their stories…well…my perception of their stories. I hope you enjoy it : ) **

**Disclaimer: If I owned any of this material, the entire series would probably be about Vick. Because he's Vick. And I have absolutely no problem with attractive men who're too scared for their shirts…just saying.**

**Prologue**

**Superman**

When Carla Benedict told her husband she wanted seven children, all he did was smile and nod and say 'whatever you want dear.' He never took her seriously, not when their house was meant to sleep four and his wallet could barely cover three. It wasn't until son number five was born scarcely a year after son number four that he began to take her seriously and by then it was too late, he was smitten.

In love with the idea of his large family he raised each one of his sons to be his best friend, his most trusted accomplice – even when it appeared that his every other child developed a fetish for Three days Grace, Harley Davidon's and rule-breaking aged fourteen, a fetish that got them into bar fights and wrestling matches and all sorts of pain. He loved them all and cared for them all and would have protected them all with his life but even if he wouldn't admit it, even if he hated himself for thinking it, in the back of his mind he had a plan festering, an idea that lingered like an infection.

He raised them to be heroes, to be more than men. To put the world first even if it killed them, to care more about humanity than their own souls and their own hearts. And because they loved him, because they respected him, because it was the only life they'd ever known, that's what they grew up to do. For a while at least.

And then one day, in a hospital in Denver after a series of routine tests had him admitted for observation, Saul watched his family sit down to eat lunch together for the last time. Of course he didn't know that then, didn't know that the cancer lurking in his pancreas would seep like poison through his body until his brain became a time-bomb, didn't known that this meal of bitter coffee and greasy French fries would be a last supper. Then again, looking at them on that sunny August day Saul didn't know that the lifestyle was killing them, draining them, rotting away at their insides, he had no idea that a lifetime of chasing terrorists and arsonists and serial killers was killing his sons, shattering them into pieces.

There were a lot of things Saul Benedict didn't know.

But at least for that one moment – that last moment – they were happy. They were smiling. They were untroubled. Or they seemed untroubled which is half the battle right there. And as Saul looked around him at his sons – the best thing he'd ever done, his one great achievement – he counted them off on his fingers. All seven of them. Seven brothers, seven heroes, seven lives, seven stories.

Or maybe just one story.

**Well…was it any good? Was it rubbish? Let me know in a review please? They're like cookies…but better…ok that's a lie because nothing's better than cookies but you get the point : )**


	2. The ones who came back

**Well hello there fanfiction! Look at me updating a day after this was uploaded! That's practically on the ball for me! Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter, you know I appreciate it! Here's how things are looking so far: this chapter and next chapter are just introducing you to my few of the brothers after the death of their father (I really am sorry about that by the way guys, but it was necessary for some major character growth within the story!) and getting used to their different viewpoints and then the story will begin properly! This chapter is devoted to the brothers who're still in Wrickenridge (or Denver) or are coming back six months after the prologue. Those of you who've read my previous story will recognize a character mentioned in here…I'm hoping you're happy with that little sub-story! Also, just FYI…this chapter is a tad depressing, I am aware of that and I promise that the rest of the story is NOT going to be as sad : ) I just hope it's well-written and that you guys enjoy it!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Finding Sky or anything affiliated with it. All OC's belong to me. Steal them and I will hunt you down, tie you up and lock you in a subterranean dungeon and force you to listen to me reading all my revision notes out loud to you. You'll never do it again, trust me.**

**This chapter is for charrrr, who's review almost gave me a panic attack and is a far better writer than I am by far. I owe her one after she very kindly pointed out my massive mistake last chapter.**

**Wow I need to stop writing such long authors notes…..**

**Chapter One**

**The ones who came back**

**Trace**

_(Gotta ask yourself the question…where are you now?)_

Life, Trace decided that Tuesday morning, looked so much better when you were drunk. It wasn't the first time he'd thought it but this time he was sure. Positive even. With a bottle in his hands he could conquer the world, he could be a king: victorious, invincible. Looking at his hands now, bleary-eyed and still half-hungover he wasn't the king of anything, wasn't good for anything – he couldn't _feel _anything. Sober and drunk were the only two emotions he could think of and he could barely remember the former.

That hand that held bottles had held a gun once, worn a wedding ring, saved lives even – that's what his brain told him, that's what his memories screamed. But none of it felt real anymore, it all seemed too long ago, like someone else's life or a crappy drama he'd seen on T.V while he waited for the bars to open back up again.

It was all his father's fault. That's what he told himself. Sometimes when he was sober enough for reality, when the real world crept up on him all of a sudden and there was no tequila close to hand to beat it back, he was good enough to realize that that was a lie, a sham, a façade. He was the one who'd gone off the rails, slipped off life's ladder, tumbled off the cloud of just-married bliss with a bone-shattering crash and a bang. But it was easier to blame somebody else, to blame the one who'd left, the one who'd abandoned him to his life, who wasn't there to save him now.

Because he needed saving, needed dragging up from the bottom of this hellhole he'd managed to throw himself into. He needed his father, needed to stop feeling weak and hopeless and horribly, horrifically alone.

"Man you look like shit."

Six months ago Trace would have heard the intruder come in, heard his thoughts if not his footsteps. Now he realised too late that he wasn't alone, that he was lying vulnerable on his back with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Swearing over and over again, using words and phrases he'd never used until he'd started drinking and had swiftly become the only language his tongue could wrap itself around, he scrambled to his feet, hunched over, defensive. Even if he couldn't shoot anymore, if his mind was too slow for telekinesis and too full of a beer-coloured haze for telepathy he was still built like a linebacker, still huge even if he wasn't anything else. That was some comfort at least.

Rat stared up at him, completely unimpressed. He was two feet two short, a hundred pounds too skinny, six years too young to look unimpressed by Trace but he did it with style. Blonde hair shaved so close to his head you would be forgiven for mistaking it for bone, half his face inked and tattooed so hard his peacock-blue right eye was almost lost amongst the colour, he bore a startling resemblance to one of Trace's brothers high-school best friends – Zed maybe – and that, Trace told himself once more, was why he hadn't punched out the kid yet.

The fact that Rat, who had never touched a drop of alcohol in his life and was far better with fire than any human had a right to be could have handed Trace his ass on a plate right now had something to do with it as well, but the drunk in Trace didn't admit defeat any easier than the cop that once lived inside him had done.

"What the hell you doin' here Rat?" Trace snarled through gritted teeth, trying to remember where the last bottle of scotch had gone. He couldn't remember drinking it, but then again, he couldn't remember not drinking it either.

Rat smirked. "What you expecting company Benedict?" he sneered in his Long Island accent. In Trace's humble opinion, those from Long Island should not be allowed to speak to those with hangovers before one in the afternoon. Rat's voice just sent shivers of irritation, of anger, of teeth-gritting annoyance running through Trace's body.

"As it happens," he grunted. "Divorce lawyer."

"You actually hired a lawyer?"

"She did."

Rat nodded. "Now that sounds more likely – screw them."

"What, both at the same time?"

Rat fixed him with a glare that threatened to melt the flesh off his bones. "You won't still be laughin' if you miss the meeting tough guy, you know that."

Trace did know. He knew his new brothers in arms were not as forgiving as his old ones, perhaps because the blood they shared ran not in their veins but down their hands. He knew what would happen if he was seen to be anything but loyal.

Then again, he wanted a drink. More than anything else, he wanted a drink. There was an itch in his bones, a screaming in his brain, a clawing at his stomach and the feeling wouldn't let go. This was what happened when he even attempted real life, when he tried to pretend he could slip in and out of the world as easily as he could slip open a six-pack. What was left of his beer-soaked conscience made a reappearance, and it had a set of lungs on it that could scream down a country.

The fighter inside Trace hated himself. So did the cop, the husband, the brother, the son. The drunk wasn't a fan either, but he shut up if you handed him a tequila. He hated what he'd done, what he was doing, what he was planning. Hated what he'd let himself get drawn into, what he'd fallen for, what he'd let himself be fooled by.

Then again, all the members of the Brotherhood hated something. That was the point, that was what held them together. Hatred and blood and occasionally ashes. The closest thing to a family Trace had now, the closest thing to a cause he'd ever had.

"If I have to leave a trail of vodka shots out of this apartment for you to follow, I'll do it," Rat glared like only a skinny, angry New Yorker could glare.

"No need," Trace cast his eyes about for his jacket then gave up as he caught sight once more of the sea of six-packs, of smashed up cans and twisted bottle-caps that seeped across his floor.

Once upon a time Trace Benedict would never have been seen dead in a place like this, not unless he was working anyway. He wouldn't have gotten this drunk, or gone so long without shaving or without calling his wife.

But Trace Benedict was gone. The Benedict part at least. Now he was just Trace and he was not the same man he'd once been.

Not even close.

**Vick **

_(And after all, you're my wonderwall)_

By the time they reached the turn-off for Wrickenridge, Vick had counted eleven stop signs, twenty-one pickup trucks and ninety-one streetlights. And he'd only been playing his silent eye-spy game in the hour since he'd turned the radio off.

Thirteen was curled up in the passenger seat beside him ,her forehead resting on the window, one hand still threaded through his, the other around her stomach – shielding herself from the outside world, from anyone who might try and harm her. God knows she'd had enough experience of that.

To a casual observer the twenty-two year old looked asleep, her breaths long and slow, every inhale and exhale making the strands of red hair that had fallen across her face flutter. Vick knew his soulfinder better than that. From the corner of his eye as he navigated the black SUV across two lanes of traffic, he could just make out the vague twitch of her eyelids every few seconds, the faint creases in her forehead as she frowned without even meaning to.

Her imitation of sleep was a fine one, but Vick knew as well as she did that she wouldn't ever rest on the road, that her guard would only stay down long enough for sleep to sneak in if she was in Vick's arms, if he was holding her close and she felt completely and totally safe. The fact that Vick's driving was safer than hers would ever be was another matter entirely.

"We're almost there Trouble," he whispered softly, unwilling to stir her even though he knew she was wide awake. "We crossed out of Oklahoma about an hour ago."

Groaning under her breath, Thirteen screwed up her face into one huge yawn before she pulled herself into a more upright position. Even as she did so, the reason for their twenty-seven hour drive through five states and most of the length of the country when the flight would have taken half that time became suddenly, startlingly, blindingly obvious.

At seven months Thirteen's pregnancy was even beginning to show through the FBI hoodie she'd stolen from Vick the day she'd moved in with him and refused to give back. The sweatshirt might dwarf her, might make her look even tinier than she actually was – all five foot six of her compared to Vick's six foot four – but he could still glimpse without looking too hard the swell of her belly beneath the fabric, the way her body now curved to accommodate their still-growing son.

Just watching her made Vick nervous, made his palms sweat and his stomach churn and his chest start burning. He always worried about her, terrified when she was out of sight, hating himself when he had to leave her for more than a day. She was his oxygen, needing her was like needing to breathe – simple, essential, almost obvious – he'd always needed her, she'd always been the most important thing to him. She always would be.

This, though, was a thousand times worse. Now it wasn't just Thirteen, it was Thirteen and his son and Vick had never felt so hopeless. Every shadow was an assailant, every bang a gunshot, every text message a ransom note. In his mind a million horrible things happened to his soulfinder every day and he was never there to stop them, never there to save her, to shelter her.

She called him paranoid, laughed off his fear like she laughed away all his other fears, his obsessions, his superstitions. Except then that laugh was infectious, contagious – her life so addictive, so bright and beautiful and brave that his couldn't help but want to brighten to join it. Now it sent waves of nervousness, of apprehension – of ice-cold, frozen-solid fear – spinning through his stomach.

He was not just being Vick this time, not just being paranoid. This time there really was a monster in the closet, a gunman in the shadows and it was getting nearer to his family every day; creeping up when they weren't looking, stalking closer, getting braver. A monster Vick couldn't fight off with his own two hands, a threat he couldn't shoot or stab or handcuff. Not on his own anyway.

And he was alone. He might have gained his soulfinder, might have met his best friend, finally discovered his other half but he'd lost his family in the process. Saul had died on the day that was supposed to be their wedding day, collapsing halfway down the aisle and dragging Thirteen down with him. Vick still had nightmares about it, the shadows of the day still exploded behind his eyelids every time he blinked.

_His mother crying. Trace shouting. Uriel calling for an ambulance. The blood soaking through the skirt of Thirteen's wedding dress even as he begged her to move, to let his father go, to let someone else take over as he coughed and wretched and vomited blood. Xav standing by the altar – Vick's best man, Thirteen's male maid of honour – stock-still, emotionless, paralysed. Zed screaming at him to move, to do something – screaming in the way only a teenager losing someone for the first time knows how. _

On it went, on and on. He prayed to forget, swore up and down and screamed and shouted and still it went on – God not listening or perhaps just not hearing. Vick was a good man – maybe not a great one like his father had been, maybe he never would be that great but he was good. He caught killers for a day-job and kidnappers for a hobby, he worked hard, prayed daily, loved his girlfriend with every ounce of humanity he had in his body. And yet nothing. He was tortured every second, every minute, every hour by the knowledge that his father was gone – gone where Vick couldn't follow, couldn't drag him back.

Gone where not even Thirteen with her talent for finding people wherever they may be – for tracking them through time and space over miles and miles – could locate him, though she'd offered to try more than once at one in the morning when they were both too tired of the darkness to even try and sleep.

Gone where he couldn't help his third son, unreachable for the first time in Vick's life. Once upon a time all he'd had to do was pick up his phone and dial a number and whatever problem, whatever issue, Saul would have the answer, he would know, he would help.

He would've told Vick what to do, would have helped him keep Thirteen safe – because even if she didn't want or need looking after, Vick couldn't stop himself needing to look after her. Saul might not have just handed Vick the answers but he would've pointed him in the right direction.

Instead Vick was floating far out in a sea of confusion, of bewilderment, of desperation. He had no idea what to do except keep going, keep fighting, keep moving forward, keep on driving towards home even if it wasn't home anymore. Even if the mother who'd held a whole family together was now splitting at the seams, unravelling, falling apart. To an onlooker Karla may seem fine – well even, given the circumstances. Her sons knew different. They could see the absence in her eyes, the dullness, the darkness. Her energy had gone, her light, her life, her vivacity. For the first time, Karla seemed old, old and fragile.

It would do her good to have people in the house, to have the excitement of a new grandchild. Or at least that's what he'd told Thirteen when he proposed going back to Colorado for the fall. They'd be back in North Carolina for winter, he'd promised her that. The promise fell flat now, flat and empty and hollow. Because he wasn't taking Thirteen to Colorado for his mother, though he loved her, though he wanted to see her. He was taking her there because the protections on the house at Wrickenridge that Saul had created should still hold, because it was still the safest place that anybody could be, the one place Vick could take Thirteen and not spend every second of the day worrying about her. The one place he could leave her whilst he did his job without having flashbacks and nightmares, without waking up in the middle of the night screaming once more.

He'd lost his father, he would not lose Thirteen.

**Xav**

_(Things we lost to the flames…things we'll never see again)_

He never spoke to anybody. Not one word. Not to the air hostesses on the six hour flight from New York. Not a word to his mother when she collected them at Denver airport. Not a word when Karla announced – her voice filled with a happiness so bright, so incandescent, so out-of-place these days it could only be fake – that Victor and Thirteen were coming west from North Carolina, that Thirteen's baby was a boy, that Karla was finally having her first grandchild. Not a word when Karla asked how come Diamond hadn't made the trip with him.

He never said a word to anybody anymore.

Just stared down at his timberlands, still immaculate even if he'd stopped caring what he looked like, stopped caring about clothes and coolness and…well everything.

All he could bring himself to feel was hollow. Lifeless. Soulless. The energy that had always sparked so strong inside Xavier Benedict was flickering and dying and he didn't know how to fix it just like he hadn't known how to fix his father, hadn't been able to save him.

Some wounds don't heal, no matter how tightly you bind them up.

He hadn't told anybody yet; hadn't told them about the rejection letters from the Medical schools who'd told him he was a cert, hadn't told them about the pills under his bed – the ones he never took, just stared at and thought about – hadn't told them about how no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't heal anymore. He had nothing left to give, no more energy, no more patience, no more effort to put into people, to trade for their sickness. He was empty now. Empty and sore. And the one thing he had left, the one thing he was at all good at was fading away, faster than he could catch it, leaving him behind. He didn't know how to step out of the spotlight, to become just one of the assembled masses instead of special, a savant.

There were two things Xavier Benedict had never been any good at. The first was silent, the second alone.

And yet, now he was both. Now he was nothing.

**Just so you know, there is a very very good reason why Xav's POV was much shorter than the other guys…a pivotal reason in fact, but I'm afraid it's for me to know and you guys to find out ****evil laugh***** But was it ok? Was it foul? What do I need to work on? Let me know in a review? **


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